


pressure points (they pressure you right back)

by floweryfran



Category: Fantastic Four (Comicverse), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M, and don’t you forget it, flangst, grape skittle nipples, i screwed with secret wars canon shoot me, idk how the cams on the statue of liberty work, johnny storm is a goddamn peach, peter lights johnny’s fire, spideytorch - Freeform, there are no cows in brooklyn, they didn’t even get tacos :-(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24611743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryfran/pseuds/floweryfran
Summary: When Johnny writesThe usual place?in smoking letters against the brilliant fuschia evening sky, there is no universe—no remnant of a do-over, no magic spell, no life respawn like a technicolor video game—from which Johnny could glean a clue as to the way his night will end.Peter, as is just goddamntypicalwith him, fucks everything up immediately.or, making something out of nothing
Relationships: Johnny Storm/Peter Parker
Comments: 48
Kudos: 311





	pressure points (they pressure you right back)

**Author's Note:**

> they’re kicking my ass! 
> 
> title from “i hate that you know me” by the bleachers! it’s on my spideytorch [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0crfe8eCV43ANFDtke2hLD?si=vTyLgicRRuiVvowGQdil9Q)!! it’s a work in progress but come listen w me

When Johnny writes _The usual place?_ in smoking letters against the brilliant fuschia evening sky, there is no universe—no remnant of a do-over, no magic spell, no life respawn like a technicolor video game—from which Johnny could glean a clue as to the way his night will end. 

It’s supposed to be perfect: tacos and Spidey and their usual barbed banter. Peter will call him _Blondie_ or _Firefly_ or _Torchy_ and Johnny’s heart will beat in earnest and Peter will burp loudly and impressively because spicy food doesn’t sit well with him and Johnny will rate it a six because giving Peter too much credit makes him insufferable. 

He’ll watch Peter punch out a few cat burglars, or they’ll take down Sandman together, and they’ll probably stop by that bodega Peter swears by to grab some gummy worms because Peter runs out of energy faster than Ben’s old Blackberry. 

Then Peter will give him a jaunty salute and return to his apartment, and Johnny will fly back to his place with the empty walls and the quiet and the distinct feeling that something is missing, and that will be that. 

Peter, as is just goddamn _typical_ with him, fucks it up immediately. 

Johnny shows at the usual place just a few minutes past eight. This is fashionably late, which is why he times it so carefully.

Peter is not there waiting. He hardly ever is, so Johnny doesn’t worry. 

He perches himself at the lip of the Lady’s crown, upping his temperature to combat the brisk onset of November, all orange and grey and sharp-witted as autumn in New York is. The temperature drop had the city reeling. The gutters were all strewn with single gloves and bobbled knit hats. 

Johnny doesn’t usually mind the cold, but the metal of the statue could freeze his balls right off right now, he bets, if he sat bare-assed up here. Like that one kid in that one Christmas movie who licked the pole and then his tongue stuck. It would probably be even more uncomfortable and traumatic, actually. Icy balls, ugh. Like those Screwball ice cream things he used to eat at the beach as a kid—his nuts would be the frozen gumballs at the bottom of the plastic cone. 

Johnny doodles in the air with his flames as he waits, legs swinging. A star, a cartoon sun. Something warm. 

Peter is always warm. He runs hot, spidery weirdo that he is.

Johnny flops backward and ups his heat further yet, sighing. 

He prods one of the spokes of the crown with a toe. Watches a pigeon bob stupidly across the horizon.

He doesn’t last long before he pulls out his phone and starts pattering off texts.

Tonight, 8:10 pm

**stick a flashlight UP my ASS babey (8:10)**

did you even SEE my SOS because

ignoring people is v rude especially

when it’s me

**stick a flashlight UP my ASS babey (8:11)**

helllooooooo earth to petey

**stick a flashlight UP my ASS babey (8:12)**

i’m being like SOOO patient rn

**stick a flashlight UP my ASS babey (8:12)**

but i will Beat Your Ass and Burn the

Scraps if you make me wait any

longer [sent with slam effect]

No response.

Johnny bullies Bobby into a few rounds of halfhearted GamePigeon darts before Spidey and his stupid web raft come bobbing into view. 

“God, fuck you!” Johnny hollers in greeting, not bothering to stand because Peter hasn’t earned that showing of respect. He throws an arm over his eyes and lays—very sexily, if he does say so himself—waiting for Peter to yank himself up or scale the side of the statue or whatever.

When Peter’s head and hand crest the edge of the crown, he looks the same as always—mask pressing his big floppy Dumbo ears and crooked nose down flat. But then he’s all the way up, standing above Johnny, and Johnny can tell even from this angle that something is different: something heavy is curving Peter’s shoulders forward, tightening his jaw.

Call it what you will, but Johnny has enough experience reading Peter Parker through the hard lines of his tension and sweet waves of his heat that he could win America’s Got Talent doing it, he’s certain.

So, when Johnny says, “Hey,” he’s a little gentler, the pumice stone in his chest smoothed out. 

Peter flops down next to Johnny, pointy elbows dinging dully against the metal of the crown. “I guess it’s not an emergency,” he says.

“Nah. Well, yes. Kinda.”

“Dude. Make up your mind.” 

Johnny turns his head towards Peter. “Take the mask off, Webwit.”

Peter faces him. “You know it’s not safe.”

“Do I look like I’ve ever given two rat farts about safety?”

“No.”

“Case closed. Take off the mask.”

“What if the camera—?”

“Only points at the front of her face, right? We’re on the back of her head. I think about these things.”

“Drones. Drones exist.”

“So what is it you don’t want me to see, then?”

Peter turns toward him. Johnny can picture his raised eyebrows.

“I’m not stupid,” Johnny says hotly. “If you think the big dumb ugly unflattering mask is enough to keep me from being able to read your mind, you’re wrong. Your mind says _pizza. Punching. Mm, Johnny is so sexy I want to make sweet sweet love to him.”_ Johnny can feel Peter’s glare through the eyes of the mask, so he sighs and says, “I can tell something’s wrong. I can always tell, with you.”

Peter sits up, looking out on the water. He shivers hard.

“Hey,” says Johnny. “Alright. Come on.” He heats up even more. It’s not like it bothers him to. Peter being a stupid martyr, on the other hand—that bothers him. He flames up a hand and holds it out toward Peter encouragingly. “Leave the damn mask on, bozo, fine, just—it’s frigid out here. What’s that sexy song? _Baby, Come Light My Fire?_ Well, tonight I’m lighting _your_ fire. Because it’s cold. _My_ nipples could cut glass, so I imagine yours are dangling precariously from your chest like a pair of grape Skittles.”

“You spend a lot of time imagining my nipples?” Peter asks, ignoring Johnny’s instructions _like always,_ grabbing his mask by the neck and pulling it off.

“Not as much as I _what the fuck?”_ Johnny puts out the flame on his palm so he can scrabble closer to Peter. He grabs Peter by the chin to get a better look at the bruise that eats up literally _half of his face,_ all purple and green, mottled and swollen. The white of his eye is swallowed in a starburst of violent red. “Mother of shit, Peter, this is ridiculous. Who the _fuck.”_

“Why, you gonna go defend my honor?” Peter says, throwing in a forced laugh. It grates, awkward and unfitting. As if Johnny would ever buy it. “Just some shit with the Scorpion. You know how he is.”

“You’re lucky his stupid tail didn’t poke your goddamn eyeball out like an olive on a skewer. Jesus, Peter,” Johnny says frustratedly. He drops Peter’s chin but doesn’t move away, seeing the way Peter relaxes into his heat. “Did this just happen? Is that why you were late?”

“Nah,” Peter says. He pulls his legs to his chest and rests his unbruised cheek on a kneecap. “This is from this morning. I just had—other stuff on the mind, when I, uh—it made me late. Tonight.”

“Thanks for that in-depth, easy to understand explanation as to what kept me awaiting your mediocre presence for so long.”

Peter groans and tucks closer into himself. “I don’t—whatever. It’s nothing, Johnny. Okay? Nothing.”

“No, it’s obviously something,” Johnny says, squinting at him. He raps his knuckles against Peter’s knee. “You wouldn’t look like a Rold Gold pretzel twist if it was nothing.”

“Would you stop pushing?”

“No.”

“Come on, Torch.”

“If my buddy Peter is upset, I want to help!”

“There’s nothing _to_ help,” Peter snaps. He yanks on the ends of his hair. “It’s nothing. It’s _nothing.”_

Johnny keeps squinting at him.

Peter huffs and turns out towards the river. 

“I’ll figure it out, you know,” Johnny says. “I always do. I can read you like a goddamn book.”

Peter laughs aloud. Normally Peter’s laugh turns Johnny’s insides to raspberry Jello, but this laugh isn’t very nice. “If I’m a book, you’re dyslexic,” he mutters, and clenches his jaw after he’s said it.

“Rude,” Johnny says, blinking. Peter’s always sharp—witty and smart enough to know Johnny to the meat and molecules of him, just bold enough to use that to his advantage—but that actually cut deep. “You’re rude. You’re so mean when you’re injured. Which is always. You’re _always_ so mean. God, why am I even friends with you?”

“I dunno,” Peter says, but he sounds tired now more than anything—as if that angry fight had dissipated as soon as it came. “Obligation?”

“Oh, shut up,” Johnny says. “Hey. Hey.” He leans forward, trying to meet Peter’s eye and keep hold of his gaze. “You know that isn’t true, right? Would you look at me?”

Peter keeps his gaze staunchly ahead, but he shoves Johnny’s head away. “Yeah. I know.”

“That was _so_ not convincing, Peter.”

“You wouldn’t know subtlety if it shit in your Cheerios, would y—?”

And then he’s standing, silent, head cocked, eyes focused.

“What?” Johnny scrambles to his feet. “What is it?”

“Shut up,” Peter hisses. Another moment. “Fuck. Okay. Something’s happening, sounds bad. Come on. Manhattan, baby.”

Johnny doesn’t hesitate. He flames on, letting the fire swallow everything but his hands, grabs Peter under the arms, and goes rocketing across the river, his heart thumping against the cage of his ribs.

\----

Johnny didn’t mean to get tied up. Sometimes he likes being tied up, really, that’s fun, but this time it’s pretty terrible because Mysterio is playing a _Torch’s Greatest Nightmares_ reel behind his eyes and Johnny sort of thinks he’s going to puke from how hard his head is pounding.

The chains are made of heat resistant metal, which is a total bummer. If he focuses hard, he can hear Peter delivering a Spidey-sense fueled smackdown in the distance, but it makes his head hurt to split his attention between the carnage behind his eyes and the carnage that has a city block shut down. Too much carnage. Too much ouch. 

So he lets himself watch bugs crawl out of a gaping hole in his chest, then hurtles smothered through space, then watches helplessly as his flames eat at Sue and mutters aloud to himself, “It’s not real, it’s not real,” because if he says it enough, he might believe it.

But the image—her skin going black, her mouth open in a silent scream, her hair smoking, God, layers of flesh in a cross-section down to the bone, the gold writhing of the strange, humming wheat field they’re in—will never leave him. It will never leave him.

Mysterio summons up Franklin, Valeria, Reed, the lot of them pulling at Sue, trying to put out Johnny’s flames, but they can’t. They catch. They burn.

“Irresponsible,” hisses Reed.

“Stupid,” says Val, all vitriol and violence.

“I knew this would happen,” says Franklin, and he sounds sad. 

Johnny pulls at his bonds. Sue needs him. Sue needs him. 

“You could save us,” they say together. “You could save us, Johnny.”

“I’m trying,” he says, but it’s like a kick in the stomach. “Ben and I—we made up, we—we looked, we tried, we couldn’t find you.”

“Were you ever smart enough to join the Four?” says Reed.

“It was easier without you,” Sue says.

“And look what good you coming back did us,” says Val.

“No good at all,” says Franklin.

“I’m sorry,” Johnny breathes, straining. If he can just get free, he can absorb the flames. He can save them.

They’re half-skeletal, melted skin like animatronics gone wrong, fritzing at the front of Chuck E. Cheese, and Johnny is here, Johnny is _useless_ to help.

“Please, I’m so sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I love you. I’m trying.”

“Not enough,” Sue says gently. 

And then she’s ash on the wind.

Reed. 

Val, Franklin.

The valley echoes. The fire rages.

_“No,”_ Johnny says, destroyed.

And then it falls away. 

Johnny gasps wildly, yanking at his chains, looking around, trying to place himself like a Monopoly piece in the middle of it—cars smashed, webbing everywhere, little pockets of flames in the gutters. He sees Saint Catherine’s Park and that McDonald’s down the way and he knows Pottery Barn is a block back. Okay. He’s here. He’s fine. He knows this. 

A deep breath, and he’s steady. 

A handful of smashed drones are littered along the streets. Peter and Mysterio stand in the midst of it all.

“Torch,” Peter yells, his arm around Mysterio’s neck, “Torch! You good? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Johnny wheezes, wishing he could press a hand to his chest to dislodge the weight there. “Fuck, I don’t think I can melt the chains without going too hot and—spreading the fire.”

He can’t. Not in the middle of the street. Peter knows that.

“Or _branding yourself with hot metal,_ dingus!” Peter hollers back. Johnny doesn’t even bother defending the fact that he doesn’t _get_ burnt. It’s about the civilians and the stores and the alcohol in the gutters that will spread the fire in great licks for blocks if he tries to escape. “God, _fuck.”_

Peter shifts his weight and gets Mysterio down. Mysterio has never been good in a fight. It’s why he uses all the hocus pocus. 

They don’t even grapple. It’s Peter on top and Mysterio laid flat, all bubble-head and cape, arms shielding his face. 

Johnny watches Peter pull his fist back. He closes his eyes before he hears it hit its mark.

And then again. 

Thud. Thud. 

Johnny hears glass crack.

He peers for a moment, stomach twisting. 

The eyes of the Spidey mask stare blankly ahead. Peter’s fist reels back. 

Johnny screws his eyes shut.

The rhythmic thump of Peter’s knuckles against flesh and bone. The wet squelch of blood, the sick crack of cartilage, the pained moans of Mysterio and then the ringing silence, punctuated by Peter’s relentless attack. Johnny can smell it. Blood and flesh. He can smell it. Can picture the red weeping onto the concrete. 

“Spidey,” Johnny croaks. “Stop. Stop, fuck, stop.”

Peter doesn’t.

_“Spider-Man,”_ Johnny yells, straining against the stupid fucking chains. “He’s out. He’s out. Stop.”

Peter’s fist bobs in the air.

“Stop. Please,” Johnny says.

Peter’s fist falls like a leaf from the tip of a branch.

“God,” Johnny whimpers, leaning against the pole of the traffic light he’s tied to.

Peter rises to his feet. He webs the unconscious Mysterio—helmet shattered to dust, face a mess of bruising and blood and cartilage—to the asphalt. Walks over to Johnny. Tears Johnny’s cuffs open.

“Are you okay?” he says tersely.

Johnny, rubbing at his aching wrists, says, “Shut up about me, would you? I know, I’m your favorite topic, but—you, are you okay? What the hell was that?”

Johnny has seen Peter angry. He’s rarely seen Peter _not_ angry.

But Peter, for the first time since Johnny’s known him, looks like he’s made of rock. No languid, graceful lines—just a slapdash collection of brick and mortar angles smacked together into the vague shape of a man. Construction sites and oxidized pipes. Anvils and sledgehammers. 

“Nothing,” says Peter. 

“Nothing,” Johnny repeats. “Is it always nothing with you?”

“I guess so.”

Johnny stares at him. Shakes his head. “Come on, let’s—lemme do a round to stop the fires, then let’s go.”

Johnny doesn’t wait for an answer. He flames on and circles the block, siphoning whatever still smokes, and when he goes to return to Peter’s side, Peter is gone.

Johnny hovers for a moment, offended down to the pits of himself, before shooting up for a better angle. 

“What the hell, Spidey,” he mutters. “You don’t wait ‘til your date’s in the bathroom to book it and leave him with the check.”

The speck of red and blue is hardly visible against the violet-streaked sunset.

But Johnny locks in on it and follows, full-tilt.

If there’s one thing he finds he’s never tired of chasing after, it’s Peter.

\----

Johnny makes his way through Peter’s window not a minute after Peter climbs through.

“Knock knock,” he yells to announce his presence.

“I knew you were following,” Peter says tiredly from somewhere else in the apartment. 

His room is a fucking mess: completely out-of-style clothes strewn on the floor and a Himalayan salt lamp dropping thick flakes onto his nightstand. A pair of likely dirty underwear dangles from his headboard. His dresser has a drawer open. The drawer is filled with takeout containers. Johnny is fairly certain some of them aren’t empty. 

It’s like that episode of _Friends_ where Ross was dating that super hot lady whose apartment was just _full_ of garbage and rats. 

Okay, it’s not actually that bad. But it’s still irksome.

“And you didn’t wait for me?” Johnny says belatedly. 

“Have I ever?”

“Maybe. Once upon a time. When you cared.”

Peter trudges around the corner, a pair of sweatpants pulled on over his suit bottoms. He’s shed the mask and his face somehow looks worse than it had earlier below the fluorescent hanging from his ceiling.

“I care,” Peter says. 

“I was kidding, I know you do,” Johnny assures. “You almost ripped Mysterio’s mystical cajones off for me today. That’s basically an engagement ring.”

“Our love language.”

“Mhm.” Johnny wishes he could read minds just for a moment. So he could unearth whatever it is choking out all of the things that make Peter himself. 

That terrible tension is gone from his body. Now, he looks empty. Like he’s sagging. All eyebags and bruises and his left arm hanging a little longer than the right; no color in his irises and his hair matted and limp. 

Johnny wants to reach into his chest and present his heart to Peter. To rearrange his veins until they pour pure warmth just for him. To make himself into a port for Peter to dock in. 

So he says, “Take your suit off.”

Peter blinks. 

“Get over here. Take your suit off.”

Peter stares for another moment before resigning himself and shuffling over, yanking the top half of the suit off as he does. He shimmies out of his sweatpants, then the legs of his suit—momentarily showing off a threadbare pair of blue boxers that Johnny sorta wants to set on fire—then replaces the sweats, top bare. 

It’s not that he’s never seen Peter stripped down to his panties, between their missions and family vacations and sleepovers. It’s just that, this time, he’s got an excuse to stare. 

Peter’s an array of bruises and white scars scrawled over the olive-y papyrus of his skin—a Monet in his own right. Johnny is fiercely relieved to see no fresh wounds. 

Peter raises a hand to awkwardly fluff his hair and Johnny catches it by the wrist with a frown.

“You demolished your knuckles, tough guy.”

Peter looks disinterestedly. “Hm. I guess I did.”

Fat drops of blood weep down his fingers, pooling in the creases of his skin.

“Come on,” Johnny says. He tugs Peter’s wrist and leads him to the bathroom.

Peter is all limp compliance. It’s so unlike him to not try and kick Johnny’s ass for mothering him that Johnny finds himself—for once—speechless.

He shoves Peter toward the toilet and presses on his shoulders until he sits. 

He slumps. 

Johnny rifles through the cabinets, grabbing whatever he can use to put together a hasty sort of first aid kit. Sue would _not_ have approved. 

Still, there’s gauze and medical tape. There’s Neosporin, which is weirdly adorable. Bandaids patterned with what Johnny recognizes to be the Paw Patrol characters. 

He sits down cross-legged, facing Peter’s melty form. 

“The Doctor’s in,” he chirps, hoping to get a glare out of Peter at least. A glare would be a gift right now. A good gift. Something to ease the unsettled, crooked awkwardness is Johnny’s chest, because this doesn’t feel _right_ or even _familiar._

Peter’s tired constantly, but not like this—not this quiet, empty exhaustion. 

Johnny dives head-first into everything, but with Peter, he’s more wary. With Peter, the consequences can hurt more than just Johnny’s ego, or his ribs, or his reputation. 

So he wades into the waters of this, frigid winter waves lapping at his ankles, trying to grow accustomed to the pins and needles down to his toes without setting a flame to force his warmth. 

He picks up one of Peter’s hands, all bulging mountain knuckles and river-like veins cutting between them. He holds Peter’s fingers flat in his own, hand turned out sorta like Johnny is about to slip an enormous and very expensive designer engagement ring on his crooked fourth finger. 

Peter looks down at him, finally: earnest eyes dulled but still so distinct that Johnny could color them blind. 

Peter’s gaze doesn’t move as Johnny examines the splits in his skin, turning his hand, gently prodding, opening and closing his fist, feeling for cracks in the knuckles. 

It doesn’t move as Johnny wets a gauze pad and dabs over top of the bruises, one jutted joint at a time. He tosses the stained gauze in the overflowing trash can before picking up the familiar yellow Neosporin tube and a fresh wad of gauze. 

He tries to be gentle. Not that Peter can’t take the roughness, the play-fighting, the way Johnny jabs his bruises just to pull a yelp out of him, but this is different. It feels different. It feels weirdly ceremonial, Mary Magdalene cleaning Jesus’s feet. 

Johnny pulls Peter’s hand closer to get a better look at the bruising pattern. 

He winces, then traces a feather-light fingertip over the red pinprick spots above the sharp tendon lines poking through Peter’s skin. 

“Ouch,” Johnny says sympathetically. 

“It’s just sore,” Peter says stiffly. 

But it’s his voice. And his eyes on Johnny’s face. And his shirt off, which is always a delight. So it makes Johnny’s stomach do somersaults. 

Johnny starts pressing gauze over the Neosporin-grease. 

“You hardly even get hurt in—ow—fights, you’re never on the ground,” Peter mumbles. “How did you become Florence Nightingale?”

“What, did you expect Sue to do it?” Johnny says with a weak attempt at a laugh. “Absolutely not. She didn’t have the patience for it. Not that I do, but that didn’t really matter when Reed’s gumby arm had a fun new bike-lock piercing.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

They fall quiet again. 

Johnny wraps the tape around Peter’s hand, then finishes by pressing an ironic fireman puppy Paw Patrol bandaid over it—an artistic touch rather than a functional one. 

He sneaks a quick look at Peter’s slack, exhausted face, then presses a loud smack of a kiss over his wrapped knuckles. 

“All better?” Johnny asks. 

Peter takes a sharp breath through his nose, then nods. “Thanks.”

“I couldn’t let you get sepsis just because you’re lazy.”

“You know those will be healed in an hour.”

“I’m fully aware. Doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to do it.”

Peter is still staring at him. His eyes are so wide and complicatedly ardent. Johnny wishes he could untangle those knots. Figure out why there’s so much heat there. So much utter rawness. 

“Come on,” Johnny says quietly. “Couch. Let’s watch a movie, Webhead. Something stupid and distracting, something with Tina Fey—”

“I’m tired.”

Johnny blinks, then says, “Oh. Okay. Um—I’ll—?”

A moment. 

“Can you stay?” Peter blurts. “Stay, please, I’m—sorry I’ve been shitty—”

“You haven’t been shitty, what the fuck?”

“—just give me a minute and I’ll be fine, sorry, I’m being stupid—”

“You’re not stupid either, you’re just—”

“—it’s fine, I’m fine—”

“—feeling things—”

“I’m not,” Peter snaps, and that shuts Johnny right up. “I’m not.”

“You’re not what?” Johnny says. Unable to stop himself, he reaches forward and lays his palms over Peter’s knees, thumbs rubbing over the bunched fabric of his sweats. “What, Pete?”

Peter works his jaw like he’s chewing. The shitty ceiling light shifts over his skin as he moves, throwing bits and pieces of his bruises into relief. That eye. The red. 

“It’s nothing,” is what he says. 

“Pete,” Johnny groans, tilting his head forward to drop onto Peter’s thigh. 

“You don’t—Johnny,” Peter presses his hands against his face. “It’s nothing,” his voice is like flint but muffled by his palms, “that’s the whole—that’s the _issue,_ it’s _nothing._ It’s nothing. There’s no reason to—” he taps his chest with a finger and grunts in frustration, “—it shouldn’t feel like this.”

“What does it feel like?” Johnny asks, nervous energy in his fingertips. 

_“Nothing.”_

“Oh,” Johnny says. Then, after a moment of processing that, “Can I make you some tea?”

“Some—what?”

“Tea. That leaf packet you boil in water? Do you have tea?” Johnny pushes himself to his feet using his palms on Peter’s legs as a boost. “I’m going to make you tea and swaddle you in blankets and probably cuddle you until the cows come home, which will never happen because this is Brooklyn and there are no cows. I’m going to make this better. I’m gonna—I’ll do anything. Eternal cuddles,” Johnny sweeps the remaining scant stash of medical equipment into the cabinets under the sink, “because that will fix everything,” he flicks the light off, “and because if I don’t fix you right now I might literally explode.”

“Fix me?” Peter repeats dumbly. He hasn’t moved from his seat on the toilet. 

“Well, not _you,_ you’re fine—you’re more than fine, you’re great, you’re the best, but _—this,_ fix _this,_ fix—” Johnny gestures wildly. 

“You’re freaking out,” Peter says. 

“I’m not!” Johnny cries. “I’m not! I’m reacting in a perfectly reasonable way after hearing you’re not _doing so hot—”_

“Breathe, why dontcha,” Peter mutters before standing up, all cracking bones and grunts of pain. 

“Jesus, Spidey,” Johnny says, throwing an arm under Peter’s shoulders to keep him upright. 

Peter tries to shove him away for all of a moment before burrowing closer, pressing his face into Johnny’s shoulder and breathing. 

And that—isn’t enough. 

So Johnny tugs Peter into his arms, full hug, the spread of Peter’s scar-puckered skin beneath his palms. Peter noses into Johnny’s neck like a sad puppy and breathes his air. After a moment, his hands come up to rest on Johnny’s hips. Then his palms slide flat and smooth to the small of Johnny’s back. And then, with no warning at all, Peter wraps his arms fully around Johnny’s waist, all suffocating grip paired with a stuttered breath. 

Johnny tightens his arms in response, a palm sliding up to hold the back of Peter’s head, his eyes screwed shut so he doesn’t do something stupid like cry a little. 

“You’re okay,” he chokes out. “Well, you’re not, but you will be. That’s what I meant. I’ll make sure you are.”

Peter pulls away just enough to look at Johnny. 

And in his eyes Johnny sees spits of islands in the middle of white-capped waters; he sees embroidery done in yellow, flowers and fields and tapestries of histories Johnny wants to read cover to cover; he sees a table so full that it bows at the middle, bounty as far as he can comprehend; he sees the muddy, mossy brown intently catching him from beneath the shadows of Peter’s thick brows, from between the comb-tooth stripe of his lashes, from above the purple bags that are so undoubtedly _him_ they make Johnny want to wax rhapsodic of the little blue bursts of veins beneath the lavender-grey sheen of them. 

And then Peter is kissing him, and Johnny doesn’t see anything at all. 

It’s slow, first: Johnny’s cherry chapstick and Peter’s cracked lips and the curious tug of something beastly in Johnny’s belly. And then their lips slide into place, and there’s more. There’s movement, but more than that there’s _anger;_ there’s that bit of Peter that burns in the face of Johnny’s flames; there’s teeth and tongue and heat not just from Johnny’s fingers, but from Peter’s cheeks, from Peter’s neck, his hair, his chest. 

Johnny chokes an uneven breath as Peter’s teeth roll his bottom lip, and then Peter pulls away. 

Johnny bumps their foreheads together, all eyelashes tickling and gasps and the bruising grip of Peter’s hands on Johnny’s waist. 

“Was that—” Johnny licks his lips, “um.”

“Did you mean it?” Peter croaks. 

Johnny blinks. His brain is really having a lot of trouble computing things. He feels like he’s a little high, actually. 

“You said you’d do anything,” Peter says. “And that—from _you,_ that’s. That’s.”

“I love you,” Johnny blurts. “I’m _in love_ with you, you doorknob, you’re—yeah, I’d do anything for you. Of course. No duh.”

“Oh,” says Peter weakly. “Cool.”

And Peter’s lips are red and swollen and his unbruised cheek is splotchy, so they’re kissing again, but it’s sweeter. 

And Johnny’s stomach is tossing, but it’s gentle. 

And Johnny pulls away with a sound like a plunger because, “Wait, wait, are you—is this? Is this?”

“Is this?” Peter parrots mockingly. 

Johnny smiles, his stomach all flooded with hot relief, because that’s Peter. That’s Peter. “Do you—?”

“I do,” Peter says. He tugs gently at the neck of Johnny’s shirt. “Of course I do. How could I not? Stupid idiot, has to ask if I’m in love with him.”

Johnny’s grinning so wide it hurts. “Nice. That’s so sexy of us.”

Peter drops his forehead on Johnny’s shoulder and slips his hands up the end of Johnny’s shirt, the rough line of tape over his palm scratching Johnny’s back. 

Johnny turns his face and noses into Peter’s hair, presses a kiss to his temple. He’s on cloud fucking nine. They both smell like sweat and panic and smoke and Peter’s face looks like a small galaxy and Peter’s aching but Johnny is currently winning. Just, in general, winning. 

“Do you still want to make me tea and cuddle?” Peter mumbles into Johnny’s collarbone. 

Johnny huffs a laugh and bites at the ball of Peter’s ear, enjoying far too much the gravelly gruffness of Peter’s groan. “Yeah, Spidey,” Johnny says softly. “You and me and an absence of cows. Some blankets. Some Ferris Bueller.”

“I love Ferris Bueller.”

“I know, idiot. That’s why I chose it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Johnny pulls back and cups Peter’s cheek, a thumb skimming the arc of his cheekbone. Peter closes his eyes. 

“What are you thinking?” Johnny asks him. 

“Mm,” Peter says. “Nothing.”

“Always nothing with you,” Johnny teases. He kisses Peter one more time before reluctantly letting him go. “Go lay down. I’ll be in with my awesome metaphorical tool belt in a second. I’ve got, like, metaphorical power tools in there—screwdrivers and wrenches and shit. It’s really legit.”

“And my tea.”

“And your tea,” Johnny says, rolling his eyes fondly, sparks in his stomach like July fourth and blackberry juice and clementine pith. 

Peter tugs Johnny’s belt loop once before shuffling off towards his bedroom. 

Johnny melts against the wall and buries his face in his hands with a squeal for one self-indulgent moment before straightening and marching off toward the kitchen. 

After all, he’s in the business of building something out of nothing and this job is unabashedly singing his name. 

**Author's Note:**

> please pretend everything i wrote makes sense with regard to johnny’s powers,,, pretend mysterio has access to heat-proof metal,,, it’s for the drama
> 
> i hope you enjoyed please let me know what you think!! i’m so sunburnt rn which is unfamiliar for this southern italian lady and i could fry an egg on my ass i need the emotional support thanks 
> 
> my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/floweryfran)!! be my friend!!


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